


What a Mess We've Made

by boatkaptain



Category: Megalo Box (Anime)
Genre: Concussions, Emetophobia, Family Fluff, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Mid-Canon, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:41:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22044259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boatkaptain/pseuds/boatkaptain
Summary: Joe wakes up in the stadium infirmary after Megalonia, and he's far from alone.
Relationships: Joe | Junk Dog & Gansaku Nanbu, Joe | Junk Dog & Sachio (Megalo Box)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 34





	What a Mess We've Made

**Author's Note:**

> [joe megalobox voice] like if you dont think

When Joe wakes up, he’s made potently aware of two things: the unfamiliarity of the room he’s in, and the throbbing pain painting every portion of his head and vision rich purple.

The ceiling is high, criss-crossed with steel beams. Behind the sharp smell of rubbing alcohol and cloth dressings floats a hint of sweat, canvas, leather. There’s a ring somewhere nearby; no mistaking that. It comes as a comfort. Unceremoniously, Joe’s eyes fall shut once more, and he remains unconscious for another half hour or so.

When he wakes up again, more resolute to stay that way this time, there’s a gentle pressure on his forehead. Warm and callused; it feels nice. He means to reach up and touch whatever the source may be, but his hand stays limp on the bedspread, and the only sound he can make in his efforts is a tiny, scratchy hum in the back of his throat.

“Oh, thank God,” somebody’s voice whispers. “Thank you, thank you.”

A pair of lips presses quickly, harshly, into his hairline. Joe opens his eyes and sees just what he expects.

“Hiya, Pops.”

“You’ve been out so long, Joe. You feel okay?”

“My head hurts. Why are you whispering?”

Nanbu chuckles. “‘Cause your head would hurt a lot more if I wasn’t. Yuri gave you a whopper of a concussion, kid.”

“Oh. Right.” Megalonia. His dance with Yuri in the ring, every punch percussive and meaningful. But the end is still a dark haze, bruise-colored and infected with the dull roar of an audience. “Guess I didn’t win.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that.” Nanbu moves aside, and there on the opposite side of the room, hooked up to all kinds of spooky-looking machinery and tubing, is Joe’s opponent. He’s out cold. Somehow, he looks even paler than usual.

“Yuri,” Joe gasps, as if it’ll wake him up. He wants to sit--to stand, even, walk over to look at the damage he’s done. There’s some strange hoop of gauze hooked around the length of Yuri’s head.

“You broke his jaw,” Nanbu laughs, taking a seat once more on the chair Joe has just noticed placed at his bedside. “Gave him a decent concussion of his own, too--but the vast majority of all that’s the fault of his gear.”

Joe blinks, eyes still fixed on his fellow boxer. “What do you mean?”

“The Shiratos came in a few hours ago. Said his body wasn’t reacting too well to getting his gear removed. You knew it was integrated with his body, Joe; you told me yourself about the scars.” Nanbu lets out a sigh. “His autonomous response is going haywire. They had to strap him down when we got here.”

“Oh.” Joe looks away. The reliable structure of the ceiling seems to be wavering, and there’s a salty lump in his throat.

Nanbu may not be able to see the evident guilt in Joe’s hard-set frown, but he knows well enough that silence, even in the midst of head trauma, doesn’t suit Joe well. His palm reappears on the fighter’s forehead. 

“He’ll be alright, boy. Megaloboxing might just be out of the cards for the time being, that’s all.”

Joe doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s filled with emotion--and maybe also bile, considering how filmy and ill his stomach and throat seem to be.

It’s at this moment that Sachio enters the infirmary, arms full of snacks in crinkly packages--and proceeds to scatter them all to the floor when he sees that Joe’s eyes are open and lucid. “ _Joe!”_ he cries.

“Hush, Sachio; not too loud,” Nanbu scolds him to no avail--the boy’s already up on the cot, teary face buried in Joe’s chest.

“It’s been _hours_ , Joe. I thought you were dead, o-or in a coma, or--”

“I told him many times that you were neither dead nor in a coma,” Nanbu mutters.

In spite of his nausea, Joe laughs, manages to lift an arm to hold Sachio against him. “You can’t get rid of me that easy.”

“Shut up,” the boy weeps. “That was the best fight I’ve ever seen. You were so good.”

“I thought so, too. Hey, could you get up for a second? I’m gonna puke.”

“Oh,” Sachio utters, wriggling away.

“O-oh,” Nanbu parrots, snatching a wastebasket from beneath the rolling bedside stand behind him. He shoves it across the floor ‘till it sits beneath Joe’s pillow, then helps the boxer roll over onto one shoulder. While Joe is sick, Nanbu rubs circles into his back, a grimace unhidden on his face. “There you go. Let it out.”

Joe does, and then he coughs, flops back onto the bed all pale-faced and clammy. Sachio doesn’t need to be asked to fetch a washcloth--he runs to the infirmary sink, then back to Joe’s bedside, and dabs at the fighter’s forehead, cheeks, and lips.

“How long did you say it’d been?” Joe rasps.

“We were nearing the five hour mark when you woke up,” Nanbu replies, quiet.

Between the bodies of his companions, Joe lets his gaze fall, again, to Yuri. His machinery is clicking and hissing in time with his breath.

“Pops sent me out to find us some food,” Sachio says, voice soft and hopeful. “There are a bunch of vending machines in the lobby, but I didn’t have any money on me, so this group of employees still hanging around after the match bought me everything they could afford. Said they’d have bought any one of Gearless Joe’s cornermen a five-course meal after that fight if they had the cash on ‘em.”

Nanbu laughs, and Joe lets himself smile, eyes returning to Team Nowhere. He watches while Sachio scurries back to the threshold to retrieve their lost treats, returns to scatter their packages over Joe’s legs beneath his sheets. Joe wants to sit up to eye their spoils, but he can’t bring his arms to work properly--they can’t find a hold on the mattress, and only tremble when he tries to strain them.

“Pops,” Joe complains, “help me sit up.”

“I’m sure you’re starved after sleeping that long,” Sachio comments, watching as Nanbu hooks an arm around the boxer’s shoulders and helps him scooch up the bed to lay against a pillow propped against the cot frame. “I made sure to pick out all kinds of stuff. There’s some sweet, some salty, a little sour--I even found this fancy-lookin’ mini tub of ice cream.”

“And nothing with any nutritional value, I’m sure,” Nanbu mutters. “Got anything spicy?”

Sachio finds a purple bag of some kind of chip-adjacent snack, the graphics filled with hot green peppers and flames, and hands it off. Nanbu nags Joe while he eats: “Nothing that’ll upset your stomach, you got it?”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it.” Joe picks through Sachio’s selection prudently: there are crispy little sticks of pretzel dipped in chocolate and pastel-colored cream, bright orange bags of puffed, cheesy crisps; chewy rainbow-colored candies and dried fruits covered in chocolate and yogurt. He selects a little clear plastic sleeve of shelled peanuts and tears it open, takes a few in his hand and tries to flick them up into the air and catch them in his mouth. All three hit him on the nose.

The infirmary door slides open again a few minutes later, and Yukiko Shirato walks in, typical brisk look upset by stress.

“It’s you,” Joe exclaims through a mouthful of peanuts.

“It’s--yes, it is me. Hello. I’m glad to see you’re awake, Joe.” She turns to Nanbu. “How long has he been up?”

“Only fifteen minutes or so.”

“Alright then.” Shirato lets out a breath, swipes a wrist across her brow. She’s either forgotten her company or doesn’t care whether they see her in this state of disarray. “You haven’t, um--I suppose none of you have been keeping a close eye on Yuri.”

“He’s still not awake,” Joe informs her.

“No, I’m afraid he’s not. We’re monitoring his vitals--he’s stable at least, but--oh, forgive me. I’m just… I didn’t expect his health to take this turn for the worse. Not this quickly, at least.” She stands, helpless.

“Miss Shirato,” Sachio says tentatively, “you can have a snack, if you want. We got lots.”

Shirato stares at him. Her gaze falls softly to Joe, then to Nanbu, and then to her hands clasped together keep herself from fidgeting.

She walks over to Joe’s bed and delicately takes the yogurt-covered raisins.

“Thank you very much, Sachio,” she says.

“Sure thing.”

Nanbu smiles, amused. He listens--and Joe watches--as Shirato walks to Yuri’s bedside and looks at him for a long moment, even reaches down to touch his face. Then she makes to leave.

“Bye, Miss Shirato,” Team Nowhere calls. From the brief expression Sachio catches, he’d wager Shirato hasn’t the slightest idea how to handle such undisguised friendliness. All her relationships are cloaked in barters and business deals.

Joe lets out a yawn, rolls his shoulders. “When do we get to go home?”

“I don’t know, Joe,” Nanbu admits. “I doubt anybody would stop us leaving, but I figure someone oughta take one last look at you before we go. I’m no nurse.”

“Could’ve had me fooled, Pops.”

Nanbu lands a slap--very restained, by his standards--on Joe’s thigh.

For another hour, Team Nowhere waits. Sachio sidles up against Joe on the wall side of the bed, curled up against his surrogate sibling while the fighter falls in and out of foggy, dreamless sleep. Nanbu wonders whether they’ll send the kid home with any painkillers, or if Nanbu’s going to have to deal with the brunt of Joe’s complaining on his own.

Machinery on the other side of the room starts to beep. Joe startles awake, and Sachio sits upright. The two sighted of the trio turn to watch as Yuri begins to stir, arms straining against the binding beneath his blankets. People in white coats rush into the infirmary, remove the boxer’s oxygen mask, unlock the bars over his wrists. He makes a noise as if to speak, then winces.

“Your jaw’s been broken, Yuri, sir,” somebody says calmly. “We have it set in bracing and a cast. The healing’s been accelerated with as much non-invasive surgery as we could safely perform, but you won’t be able to speak or eat solid food for about another week.”

Behind this wall of doctors (and beyond Team Nowhere’s field of vision), Yuri lazily sweeps a hand aside to part the crowd. When they move, he sees Joe, and Nanbu, and Sachio.

His smile looks a bit like a grimace. But it is unquestionably a smile.

Joe waves.

Yuri waves back.

Then he snaps his fingers, gestures for a pen and writing surface. He is promptly provided with a pad, and the fighter scribbles something quick before handing the pad off again.

“‘Who won’?” The doctor holding the note laughs. “Neither of you. You knocked each other out in the thirteenth round.”

Yuri makes a _hm-hm-hm_ sound, and everybody thinks it might be a laugh.

“And it’ll be up to you as champion to decide how much of your allotted winnings you’d like to accept.”

Everyone turns. Yukiko Shirato has reappeared at the infirmary door.

Yuri gestures for his pad again as Shirato approaches. By the time she’s reached his bedside, Yuri’s completed his reply.

Shirato takes it, stares at it for a moment, and nods. She turns back towards Team Nowhere and hands the note to Joe.

“‘All to Nowhere.’ That’s what it says.” The boxer is silent for a moment before the message’s meaning occurs to him, and he lets out a small, shocked sound. “What?”

“You’re kidding,” Sachio gasps.

Nanbu stands, snatches his cane from its lean against the bedside table, and hobbles over to Yuri’s side of the infirmary.

“Yuri, sir,” he murmurs conspiratorially, “you’re not in any way obligated to do this for us. It’s far too generous.”

Yuri reaches up to pat the old man’s elbow, and tears appear from beneath Nanbu’s aviators. Yuri squeezes his arm. The mute and the blind in perfect understanding of one another, briefly.

“Thank you,” Nanbu mutters. “Thank you.”

A few spare doctors take the opportunity to look Joe over while they’re here; they ask after his memory of the fight, coyly check the vomit in the wastebasket for blood. _Good to go,_ they say. Joe is helped out in a flurry; he hasn’t any time to wish Yuri farewell but for a hasty shout over his shoulder in the wheelchair they insist on sending him out in.

Shirato walks briskly alongside the chair as it’s pushed.

“The masses have been informed you’ve been kept in the Megalonia Stadium’s infirmary,” she says, matter-of-fact as ever. “There’s still a sizeable crowd waiting outside. We’ll load you into a car from the service entrance in the back and escort you back to the sl--ah, the Restricted District.” She shakes her head, suddenly quite self-aware. “How strange that feels to say after everything. I advise you to find a slightly more serviceable living situation with your winnings, Joe.”

Joe doesn’t understand why he ever would. The slum is home.

Nanbu rests a hand on his shoulder and gently pinches, imbuing the gesture with meaning.

They are helped into a sleek black van with shaded windows, and Shirato tells them to take care before the doors close. She’ll be in touch, she says.

Team Nowhere is finally alone again. Joe closes his eyes and rests his head in his palms; looking out the window makes him dizzy. Nanbu’s hand is still on his shoulder, and it doesn’t leave until the car pulls up at the riverside where their houseboat’s tied up. They’re left roadside up the grassy slope, a dizzied Joe leaning on Nanbu, disoriented Nanbu leaning on Joe, Sachio guiding them both to the best of his ability. But for a moment, before they descend, Team Nowhere stands for a still, silent moment. After the late night match and long hours spent waiting for Joe to awaken, the sun is just beginning to rise over the water. Each wonders on his own whether he’ll be out like a light when their head hits the pillow, or they’re simply too wired to sleep. Joe is hungry again. Sachio’s tired, but dreads the silent loneliness of sleep.

Nanbu is bone tired. Well before Joe woke up, he spent two long hours alternating weeping into his hands and running his fingers through the young man’s hair, helpless and desperate to help what simply couldn’t be aided through anything more than rest and recovery.

“Pops,” Sachio says, voice small and hand even smaller within his caretaker’s, “are we rich?”

Nanbu lets out a laugh. “Joe’s rich. We’re freeloaders.”

“Shut up. You’re not freeloaders,” Joe snaps, punching Nanbu in the arm. “Like I need all that money, anyway.”

“What should we do with it, Pops?”

Nanbu thinks about that for a minute. At the risk of being laughed at, he thinks a level of candor can’t possibly be any more difficult than the events of the past seven hours.

“If it were mine to spend, I’d open another gym,” he sighs, “and plant a big, beautiful vegetable patch right in the backyard.”

“Here in the slum?” Sachio asks.

“Of course. What does the city need another megaloboxing gym for, anyways? We could bring everyone over, cook huge dinners, sell veggies and lessons and set up open spars…”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” Joe nods, resolute. “I’m starved, Pops. Can you make tamagoyaki?”

Nanbu pauses, lets out a long sigh. “Yeah, fuck it. It’ll be morning soon anyways.”

Team Nowhere join hands and carefully make their way down the hill towards the boat, pinkish-golden light painting their hair and pale faces with a healthy, warming blush.

**Author's Note:**

> they're soft, i'm soft, YOU'RE soft; are there any other squidwards i should know about


End file.
